


in his dreams

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives), in the cabin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24671869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding his dreams. Statement... pulled direct from subject. Sorry, love. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims… the Archive.What Martin dreams about.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	in his dreams

Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding his dreams. Statement... pulled direct from subject. Sorry, love. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims… the Archive. 

It starts as it always does. He’s standing over his mother, when she had first gotten sick. There hadn’t been any blood on his hands yet. He looks down at them, gripping the side of the hospital bed, his knuckles turning stark white. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know to look. He continues looking down, at his knuckles, his mother’s face, back to his knuckles. And then the fear hits, because I know just as he knows what happens next. His mother opens her eyes. She tells him to get out, that she doesn’t need a man like him doting on her. And I know as he knows what that really means. 

It shifts. He’s standing over his mother again. There’s so much hatred in her eyes. She calls him by his father’s name. I want to reach out to him, but he still doesn’t know I’m there. I wish he did. I wish you did…

Another shift. He’s sitting over me. We’re both still, me from everything-but-brain-death, him wound tight with hope. My burnt hand is in his, wrapped around the scar Jude Perry bestowed upon me. He’s gripping it tight, and begins speaking. He tells me he loves me, that he needs me back in the institute, he doesn’t even try to prevaricate and say that they all do. There are tears in his eyes. They drip down onto the pale grey sheet of my hospital bed. He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. I have to look away as he begs me to wake up. To wake up for him. 

Shift. He has an arm full of tape recorders. He piles them on top of the coffin that leads to the Buried. As they hit the wood, they start playing statements, a cacophony of my own voice flowing through their tinny speakers. He places his hand on the wood and pulls another recorder from his breast pocket. He stares at it for a moment, his thumb poised to press record. He thinks better of it and instead decides to press his words into the scratched lid of the coffin. He tells the empty room with the hope that it would reach me that he loves me. That I have to come back. It’s then that I realize how many times and in how many ways Martin Blackwood has been telling me he loves me. 

Shift. The Lonely. He’s standing still. He barely reacts as he hears my calls. I can feel the loneliness within him, radiating off of him, surrounding him. I can feel his contentment, as well. I reach him finally, but he doesn’t look at me, even when I implore him to. In his dreams, he’s determined to stay in the Lonely. I expect this dream me to become furious, to storm away, to try and compel him to tell me why he wants to stay here, but I don’t. I circle around him, I drop to my knees, get myself into his field of vision. I continue to beg him to leave this place with me, that I know the way home, that Peter Lukas is gone and we don’t have to worry about him anymore. But he closes his eyes. He doesn’t look back at me and my voice begins to fade away. In his dreams, he never leaves the Lonely.

Statement ends. 

There’s a shifting on tape and the creaking of a bed frame. 

“Martin…” the Archive whispers. There’s a small noise, a kiss to a forehead, “Martin, wake up.” Another pause, another shift, a sing-song, “Love.”

The ancient sheets shiff as the body entwined in them awakens, “Oh, hello,” the Archive whispers, voice fond, “how was your nap?” 

There’s a drawn out yawn and a hum, “It was good. Are you alright? Do you need something?”

“No, I just missed you. And… you were dreaming. You looked… distressed. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Another hum, “Can’t remember it.” A slight pause, “Are you sure you’re alright, Jon? The recorder is on. Did something happen?”

“It’s just reacting to your dreams, I think. Wanted me to… make a statement about them.”

“And did you?”

The Archive doesn’t speak for a long moment. There’s a sigh, “Play it for me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Though this is the first and only time. Agreed?”

The Archives speaks, a fond smile in his voice, “Agreed. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
